Bright Star
by Dollimesh
Summary: "I wish you could see me," Mary breaths. His vacant eyes somehow find her vibrant ones, "I don't need to see you . . . I can feel you."
1. Prologue

_Dearest Cousin,_

_ I'll be brief, for my excitement is too much to bear._

_Finally, my lessons are completed. I graduated at the top of my class,_

_and can not wait until I return home to Misselthwaite. I've missed_

_you, Dickon, Martha, Ben, and just about everyone! I expect to be_

_home in a few days. Please, tell me everything that has happened_

_while I was gone._

_ Love,_

_ Mary Lennox_


	2. Chapter One

Mary pressed her hands against the glass pane of the carriage as it drove down the lane. She tried to look at everything at once; not let any detail go by her. She gazed lovingly upon the moor, it's great expanse of nothing may seem daunting to some, but to her it was beautiful.

Thoughts of her first time coming to Misselthwaite filled Mary's mind as her eyes darted from one sight to the next. She had been traveling with Mrs. Medlock then, and now she was traveling on her own. She had memorized the way by heart, so she wasn't frightened. She was going home, what need did she have to fear? Though, her teachers had been worried of her traveling by herself, but she put their fears to rest. Though she was only sixteen, she was extremely capable of taking care of herself.

Suddenly, the moor disappeared and it was replaced by lines of tall thick trees, that arched at the top and blocked out the sky. Mary's heart leaped in her breast, it was this long tunnel of trees that would soon open up and reveal her home to her. She pressed herself against the window's again and strained her eyes and her neck to see past the trees. After what seemed like forever, the trees thinned out, and Mary could see Misselthwaite Manor. A small gasp escaped her lips at the sight of her home, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. She grabbed her skirt and perched on the edge of her seat, waiting for the carriage to stop so she could get out and see everyone. Finally, it stopped. Pushing the door open, Mary jumped down from the booth just as the driver came down to give her her bags. She thanked him quickly, he nodded in response, she took her bags from him and rushed up the long stairs to the massive oak door. Just as she was about to knock, a high screeching sound permeated through the air and the door swung slowly open, revealing an enormous hall and a familiar face.

"Colin!" Mary squealed with delight. Forgetting about her bags, they fell from her grasp as she embraced her cousin who received her with just as much delight.

He was so tall! Mary leaned back so she could look at him. In his face she saw the same boy from her memories, but his features were longer and more defined. His eyes didn't look so big anymore, but his lashes were just as long, and his eyes just as gray.

"You've changed, Colin!" Mary took a few steps back and determined he was approximately five feet seven.

Colin laughed in delight and appraised Mary, "So have you!" Indeed, she was much changed. Her blond hair grew to fall just past her waist, but she had tied it back with a ribbon. As she was sixteen, and a young woman, her flat frame had filled out to provide her with a small waist, round hips and developed breasts. She too, had grown, but not as much as Colin. Last time she was measured, she came to be five feet and three inches. Her eyes were the same as her mother's, and her features matched her mother's as well. With smooth skin, a long straight nose, perfect lips and delicate chin, Mary was quite beautiful. The complete opposite of the sullen and frail little thing she had been when she had first arrived to Misselthwaite.

Colin snapped his fingers, and Mr. Pitcher arrived almost instantly. "Take Mary's things up to her room. Then bring us some tea and cake in the parlor." Mr. Pitcher bowed, and retrieved Mary's forgotten bags.

"Was that Mr. Pitcher? Isn't he you're father's servant?" Mary inquired, but Colin didn't respond. He merely placed his hand on the small of her back and lead her to the grand parlor off to the side.

Mary sat down on a red velvet couch, and watched as a servant she didn't know entered with a tray of tea and small cakes. Mary set her gaze on Colin, who sat on a chair across from her. "Colin, did something happen?"

He sighed and poured two glasses of tea, one he handed to Mary, the other he kept for himself. "Well, I suppose I'll have to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Mary asked, eyes fixed on Colin.

"My father's dead, Mary. He grew very ill about a year ago." Colin stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea, "I've been left everything. Well, almost everything. He made an account in your name with enough money so you could live comfortably for the rest of your life."

Mary couldn't believe it. Her uncle, his father, Archibald Craven was dead. "Oh, Colin. I'm so sorry. But why didn't anyone tell me?"

"I didn't want to write it. I was waiting for when you came back."

Mary leaned forward, placed her tea on the table and gazed intently on Colin, "Please, if there is anything else, tell me."

Colin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and finally leaned back and told her everything that had happened from the moment she left to the moment she returned.

He told her how Martha's mother had grown ill, and how his father had brought her to Misselthwaite so their doctor could help treat her. He told her how many of Martha's little brothers and sisters fell ill to the same illness, and how his own father too fell ill. He didn't say, but Mary knew that they had all died. Only Martha, and three of her siblings remained.

"Oh, Colin. What about Dickon? I heard he was sent to the war. Is that true?"

Just then, the doors to the parlor burst open and a male and a female walked in.

"Is Mary here?"

"Dickon, slow down. I canna keep up wi'h thee."

Mary stood and squealed with delight at the sight of Martha and Dickon. "Oh, Martha! I've missed you!" She hugged Martha tightly and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Oh, well it's good to see you again Miss Mary." Martha spoke, and Mary just loved the way her lilting accent brought back so many memories.

Mary pulled back and turned to face Dickon, there was something different about him but she paid it no mind as she buried her face in his chest and breathed in the scent of the moors and fresh air.

"Mary? I've miss'd you so!" His arms wrapped around her and they laughed.

She leaned back so she could see him better, she found he was much changed as well. His features were sharper and defined, like a man's, but there was something about his eyes that made her smile fade. The color in his eyes was drained. The once bright sky blue eyes were now as white as the clouds that hang above. As she focused on his eyes, she noticed that the skin around them was also different. Instead of being smooth, they were crinkled and bumpy. She couldn't keep herself from bringing up her hand and touching the scarred skin around his eyes.

He placed his hand over her's, "It happened in the war."

Mary felt hot tears spill over and glide down her cheeks as she realized what had happened. Dickon had lost his sight. He was blind.


	3. Chapter Two

**Author's note: Well, hey there. I'd just like to take a moment to thank those of you who have reviewed my story so far. I absolutely love to get reviews and it makes me want to write more. : ) Anywho, I'll be updating every Saturday, but if something happens and I can't update Saturday I'll try to get the new chapter up either the day before or after. So yeah, hope you guys enjoy! **

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><p>Only one word came to Mary's mind, and that was <em>why<em>. Why was it Dickon that had lost his sight? He loved to see the world, the people in it, the animals and the plants. How was he going to see if the garden was wick or not? How was he going to see the sky or the clouds hanging above? How was he going to find lost animals out on the moor? Mary thought, _How was he going to see me?_ Mary shook her head, refusing to believe what she was seeing. It couldn't be true. It _couldn't_ be.

"How?" Mary managed to ask.

Martha gave Mary a sympathetic look, then took her by the arm and lead her back toward the sofa to sit. "Best 'av a seat 'en, Mary." As Martha guided Mary to the sofa, Mary noticed how Dickon placed his hand on Martha's shoulder and walked with them. Mary sat down and watched as Martha lead Dickon to sit in a lounge chair next to Colin. Martha stood nearby. Mary almost wished Martha would sit down next to her; she wanted to hold Martha's hand and feel warmth and comfort from her touch. Though before she could ask Martha to sit down, Dickon started to speak.

His story started a few months after Mary left for school in London. He told how two officers arrived on the doorstep of Misselthwaite, handed him a letter and told him to be ready in a week. This was before Colin's father died, but after his mother got sick. He didn't want to leave, but his mother wanted him out of the house so he wouldn't get sick too. So, the week passed and the officers came back and he left Misselthwaite.

Martha added a few details here and there of how things were going on at Misselthwaite when Dickon had left. How her mother grew sicker, and the illness spread to her children who were also close by, refusing to leave their mother. The ones who could be pried from her room had survived.

"For a long time, we didn't 'ave a lot o' work. We kind of jus' stood around the camp, waitin' for orders," Dickon continued. "For 'bout a year, we jus' waited. Then, we got orders to head to the fron' lines. We was there 'bout a few days when the other side started bombin' us." He talked about how the bombs kept falling one after the other, lifting up the dirt so they couldn't see two feet in front of them. All they could do was lay low until the bombs stopped falling. "Out a few feet, I 'eard a bomb fall, and it 'it some o' our men. I suppose the other side 'eard their screams, 'cause not long after that, the bombs started 'ittin' us. We moved back a bit, but I was slow movin'. A bomb fell in front o' me, an' pushed me back. When I woke, I was in a 'ospital bed, an' I couldn't see. The doctor said the blast was so close it burned my eyes. I got some burn scars on my arms an' legs as well."

Dickon shrugged, "Well, tha's what 'appened."

The tears had started falling long before Dickon finished telling the story of how he lost his sight. Mary didn't wipe her eyes, she just sat there holding herself, willing Dickon's empty eyes to look at her just once, but his focus went right through her as if she wasn't there.

"But–," Mary choked back a sob, "can you still go out? Can you go to the gardens? The moor?"

Dickon nodded, a pained look on his face when he heard Mary sob. "Yea', I can still go out. Jus' I need some 'elp every now and then. Don't cry for me, Miss Mary. It's not so bad. It really isn't. I been gettin' used to it. It's all right."

"No!" Mary stood, "It's not all right! You can't see the world anymore! You can't see the robin! The moor! The garden! The flowers! The clouds! The animals! Dickon, you can't see _me_!" Her voice broke, and she sobbed loudly as she ran out of the room. She ran up the stairs and into her room, and threw herself onto her bed, sobbing into the pillows.

There had to be a way to fix his eyes. There had to be some kind of surgery available. Mary's mind raced and pictured all the things Dickon wouldn't get to see anymore. She had wanted him to see her when she came back. She had wanted to see his face when he saw how much she had changed. It wasn't fair!

"Miss Mary?" A soft voice in the distance; Mary recognized that the voice belonged to Martha.

"Go away!" Mary screamed. She didn't want anyone to see her like this. Her mind flashed to before she had left, when she would kick and scream and throw a tantrum because things didn't go her way. It was then that she realized she was doing the same thing. Her screams subsided, and she stopped kicking, but she couldn't stop crying. The pain was still there, like a hollowness in her chest, aching and burning every time she breathed. She wanted to be alone. She looked up from her wet pillow, and saw Martha had left a tray of food, but she wasn't hungry. Mary stood and walked over to the window. She looked out and saw the purple moor and clear sky. There was nothing and no one, not even the wind was blowing. She was alone.

Fresh tears had just started to fall when she heard a knock at her door. Part of her wanted to yell at whoever it was, but a part of her wanted to be comforted, so she just stood there in front of the window.

"Mary?" Dickon asked.

She turned and saw him by the door, leaning in and feeling with his hands. She sighed and moved over to him, reached out and touched his hand with hers. She could feel calluses on his fingers and palm.

He closed the door behind him as Mary led him further in her room. She stopped in front of the window and asked, "What can you see?"

He lifted his head to where her voice came from, his hand still in hers. "Black."

"I hate black," Mary whispered.

For a while, they stood there. Mary looking outside at the moor and Dickon staring at where he last heard Mary speak. Slowly, his hand left hers and started trailing up her arm. Mary looked down at his hand on her arm, "What are you doing?" He didn't answer.

Now his hand was on her neck, "I wish you could see me," Mary breathed.

"I don't 'ave to see you," Dickon whispered, his fingers trailing over her face, "I can feel you." Mary gasped when she felt his other hand touch her waist, then move to the small of her back. He took a step forward and gently pulled Mary against him. He ran his hand up her hair, so one hand was on the small of her back and the other against her face. All the while, Mary had closed her eyes, so when Mary opened them now she was surprised to see that Dickon's face was merely inches away from her own.

"What do you see now?"

Dickon's fingers twirled a strand of her hair, then brought the strand of her hair to his nose and inhaled, "I smell you." He pressed the small of her back, "I feel you." He caressed her cheek, "I see you. You're beautiful."

Mary closed her eyes again, the feel of his hands on her warmed her from the inside out, filling in the hole that had started to fester inside her heart. If he couldn't actually see her, that didn't matter anymore, so long as he never let her go.

A knock at her door, made her eyes flutter open, and quickly Dickon let his hands fall and took a step back. Mary still felt the lingering touch of his fingers along her skin.

"Dickon," two small voices called, and then two small faces peered around the door. Their expressions lightened the moment they saw Dickon and Mary. They ran forward and wrapped their arms around the two, squealing in excitement. "We 'eard tha' Miss Mary 'ad come, an' so we was waitin', but tha cook tol' us ta wait a moment. So we's waited, but we culdn't waits no more, sos we went searchin' for thee, and now we found thee!"

Mary was confused and shocked, then she realized who the two children were, it was Phil and Jane Sowerby. "Oh! You two grew!"

"Mary, could ya tell us 'bout London?" Phil asked, and Jane nodded vigorously.

"Well, all right." Mary lead them all to the adjoining room, where they sat at the table and Mary told them all about her time in London. Though, all during her story she kept looking up at Dickon and remembering how it felt when she was in his arms.


	4. Chapter Three

_Thirty-seven . . . thirty-eight . . . thirty-nine . . . forty. . . _Dickon counted his steps as he walked. He had found that from Mary's door it was fifty steps to the stairs, and the stairs had thirty steps; once he reached the top of the stairs it was twelve steps to his rooms. He kept his hand trailing along the wall to his left as he walked, feeling the grooves and indentations of the wood paneling. _Forty-nine . . . fifty_ . . . The tips of Dickon's shoes touched the base of the first step, and he started to ascend. _Six . . . seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . _He moved slowly, if he moved too fast he'd loose count and get lost. He hated relying so much on Martha and his little brother and sister, so he came up with this method. Granted, he wasn't exactly used to counting all of his steps, and it was difficult at times, but he wanted to be somewhat independent. _Twenty-eight . . . twenty-nine . . . thirty . . ._ He lifted his foot one more time just in case he had miscounted, and found it landed on the same level as his other foot. A grin spread across his face, then faded as he started to walk forward again and once again started counting. _One . . . two . . . three . . . _Once he reached twelve, he felt the surface on his right until his fingers found the door knob, then he entered his room.

Before he left for the war, Dickon's room was simple, but much more extravagant than his old room, which he had to share with his brothers and sisters. A four poster bed stood on the right, a chest of drawers at the foot. In front of the window there was a small desk, and the adjoining room was a kind of stuffy sitting room. Now, when Dickon entered his room, he saw the same thing he always saw: blackness. Though he expected his room stayed much the same as before.

He never bothered turning on any lights, because he didn't need them anyway, but as he walked farther into his room he heard a low crack of a fire. Dickon tilted his head toward the sound, "Is someone there?"

"Yes."

Dickon sighed in relief when he recognized the voice as Colin's. "'ave you been waitin' fer me?"

Again Colin answered, "Yes."

"Sorry. If I 'ad known you was waitin' I would 'a come sooner."

Silence.

"Colin? What is it?"

Finally, he spoke. "Martha tells me you were in Mary's room." He spoke slowly but sharply, a frown marred his face, though Dickon could not see it. "You were there this entire time." It wasn't a question, but Dickon answered with a soft yes.

The sound of wood scraping against wood pierced the silence; Dickon's heart leaped in his chest at the sudden sound. Quick steps charged toward him, and he clumsily backed up, unsure of where in his room he was. Something grasped the collar of his shirt and a strong force pushed him against a solid surface. Dickon's hands flew up to the thing grabbing him, fingers feeling for recognition, and found it was hand. Hot breath blew on his ear and a low voice snarled, it was Colin.

"You are not to be alone with her," his voice dripped with malice. Dickon tried to pry Colin's fingers from his collar, but Colin only gripped tighter and pressed him harder against the wall. "Do you understand me?"

"I've been in th'a war, Colin," Dickon responded, trying to plant some fear in Colin, but it didn't work. Colin merely scoffed.

"Oh, I know, and you didn't hurt a fly. All those years training and you couldn't hit a thing," Colin snarled. "You're too nice, Dickon. That's your problem. You've always been too nice." He paused, "That's why you're so weak."

Dickon struggled to free himself, he pulled at Colin's fingers, but kept fumbling. Colin laughed. "She is mine."

"She does't belon' to you. She's free to choose who she wants."

Colin pushed Dickon against the wall again, then released him suddenly, causing Dickon to stumble and lean against the wall for support. He heard Colin's footsteps retreating, then respond in a cold voice, "And she'll choose me." The door shut, and once again it was silent.

Tentatively, Dickon felt in front of him with his foot, and after a while he found the chair that had been knocked over by Colin and righted it. He cursed himself silently for being so weak. Everything Colin had said was true. Though Dickon had been in the war, he hadn't actually hurt anyone. Training had built up his muscles and taught him obedience and loyalty, but it hadn't been able to build a lust for fighting. He never wanted to be in the war, and once he was there he wanted to get out of it. He was glad when his team had been left behind at the base for so long. He had thought that if they stayed there long enough the war would be over. But then they got the letter. They were shipped to the front lines. Even there, he hadn't fought. No one did.

Dickon growled and toppled the chair, cursing his weakness, his inability to stand up to Colin. He should have punched him, pushed him, kicked him, _hurt_ him. Anything to prove he wasn't weak. Dickon sighed, and once again picked up the abused chair. It wouldn't do him any good to destroy the furniture. Or to mope and put himself down. Next time, he'd do something. Dickon promised that the next time Colin threatened him, and pushed him against a wall, he would fight back. If not for his sake, then for Mary's. If this was the new Colin, Dickon had to protect Mary from him.


End file.
